


Ironstone

by EmmyJay



Series: Ivory Ascending [10]
Category: The Dark Crystal (1982), The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assault, Canonical Character Death, Dreamfasting, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Genocide, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Assault, Threats, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:21:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22470223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmyJay/pseuds/EmmyJay
Summary: Seladon's latest summons is familiar, yet undeniably changed.
Relationships: Brea & Seladon (Dark Crystal), Seladon/skekSo (Dark Crystal)
Series: Ivory Ascending [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1528451
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all of my readers: the E-rated segments of this story (parts 5 and 6, 'Porcelain' and the newly-posted 'Silverling', respectively) have been locked to account-holders only. I do apologise for that, I know a lot of people prefer to comment and kudos anonymously (especially on darker content), but some grumblings I saw floating around got me spooked.

"Barricade the door behind me," Seladon ordered her sister. "Don't allow anyone inside. I will knock three times when I return; if you do not hear that, do not allow them to open the door." Brea looked like she wanted to argue, because of course she did, but Seladon did not give her the chance before allowing the Podlings to escort her away, their apparent leader locking the door behind them and pocketing the key.

To Seladon's surprise, the entourage did not escort her the whole way to the Emperor's chamber. Instead they shuffled her only so far as where the wing which housed her room met the more central corridor, then bustled off in the opposite direction, dragging the squeaking cart along with them. The one who had tugged on her sleeve turned back at the point where the path began to curve, mouth open as though it wanted to say something. But its fellows pulled it away, and it vanished from view shortly thereafter.

The message was clear: the Emperor believed Seladon would not an attempt an escape, even with freedom dangled before her. And he was correct; even if she had been in any condition to flee, without the key she would be unable to take Brea with her. Seladon did not intend to abandon her sister. Not again.

That was not to say, of course, that she was not prepared to test the limits of this opportunity. At every crossways she peered down the intersecting halls, looking for windows or balconies, or rooms that might contain them. Once she even ventured farther, creeping along a side corridor until she felt the unmistakable chill of a breeze through the air. She took careful note of the area before hobbling back to her usual route, confident that she would be capable of finding it again.

The Emperor was already waiting when she slipped into his chamber, his eyes narrowed in displeasure—though whether at how long she had taken to answer his summons, or the fact that she had not knocked before entering, Seladon was unsure; possibly both.

 _'Courtesies are for Lords,'_ she thought, bowing her head to hide the hatred in her gaze. _' **You** are an animal.'_

"I greet you, All-Maudra." His tone was cordial, the sound of it making her tremble in a mixture of anger and fear. "I am pleased to see you up and about, in spite of the previous day's... _events_."

In a few quick strides he circled the table, closing the distance between them. Despite her determination to make no sound, Seladon still cried out when he grasped her jaw too roughly. He ignored her, turning her head from side to side in scrutiny; what he saw clearly displeased him, his eyes darkening.

"See to it that these heal properly," he commanded, releasing her. "I prefer you pretty."

 _'Then exercise some control over your fellow Lords,'_ Seladon bit back; aloud she said, "Yes, My Lord Emperor." 

The Emperor made a soft sound, stepping away, and once he turned Seladon let her gaze fall again. She worked her jaw from side to side, wincing at the soreness there from the Emperor's grip, yet it didn't feel as though her injuries had been horribly agitated. A small mercy there, at least.

"Rest assured," the Emperor continued, "the General will not lay hands on you again. He has been shown the error of his ways."

Again, Seladon recalled the Chamberlain's talk of punishment. Yet she had heard nothing more from the Castle beyond the hysteria brought on by what she now knew was the Hunter's arrival. And the General himself, when he had delivered Brea to her room, had looked no worse for wear. Cautiously she ventured, "was the General disciplined for his failure?"

There was a moment of heavy pause.

"He would have been," the Empreror agreed at length, and there was a queer edge to his tone. Seeking answers Seladon looked up, and found his eyes locked once more upon her. The urge to avert her gaze again was strong, stamped into her by years of courtly upbringing, but she dared not turn away. "However, the circumstances following your departure took an unexpected turn. I fear we soon found ourselves with other, far more pressing matters to contend with."

The Emperor's beak was even less capable of a smile than the Chamberlain's. Yet somehow, Seladon could still see the curve of it clearly.

"But you already knew all that—didn't you, All Maudra?"

 _'He knows I've spoken with Brea,'_ Seladon realised with little surprise. It was, after all, a logical conclusion to reach, and the Emperor was no fool; he may even have intended it, in putting Brea with her.

"My sister has told me the circumstances of her arrival," she affirmed. "She said the Hunter brought her here, and that he was greatly injured in the process." The Emperor's eyes searched her, and Seladon bristled uncomfortably. "My Lord Emperor, if I may—"

"You may **not**." The Emperor struck an arm through the air, as though delivering a blow. "Enough of this talk. I imagine you must be hungry, All-Maudra?"

He gestured to the table, and Seladon's good eye fell upon it, and the simple bowl at its edge. She had to balance once again on the stool to reach the table, but the discomfort was a small price to pay as the first bites reached her stomach, warmth blooming inside with a deep-set relief. It was all Seladon could do not to gulp it all down at once, restraining herself to remember her manners as she ate, even if her present company was unworthy of them.

With every bite she felt his eyes upon her, knowing even without looking that they glimmered with a different kind of hunger. He returned to her side as she finished, waiting patiently while she scraped every last morsel from the bowl, and when at last she set down her dishware he tossed it carelessly aside. Seladon heard it strike the floor, and noted that it did not break.

"As I'm sure the General informed you," the Emperor began, "our efforts to take the Drenchen went...ah, somewhat awry." Despite the circumstances, Seladon had to fight to contain a smug smile at the victory. "Additionally, I fear our stock of Essence was severely depleted during the treatment of the Hunter's injuries—a small price to pay, of course, for one of our own, would you not say?"

He moved to stand fully behind her, and as his arms came down on either side, caging her in, Seladon at last focused on what she had avoided seeing since she had stepped into the room: the map, what had ben absent in all her visits since she named the Drenchen, now returned with all that its presence entailed. The land was the same as before, down to the rent obscuring where Stone-In-The-Wood had once stood—save, she noticed now without the bowl covering them, for the angry-looking claw marks maiming the Sog.

"A small price," he continued. "And yet all the same, I require you once more to provide me with a name."

Seladon pulled in a deep breath, steadying herself. She had anticipated that this would come, and planned for it accordingly. The Ascendancy had said Grot was over-run with something evil, that it was only with help from the caves' clan that they had escaped death at its hands. No doubt the Grottan were scattered now, hidden away somewhere; naming them, therefore, would carry no risks.

"I understand, My Lord Emperor," she spoke aloud, keeping her voice wrought with tension. "I will not deny you your due. If you must take more of my people, then please—take the Grottan."

The Emperor shifted at her back, and one of his caging arms reached across the map to the area surrounding Grot. Seladon held her breath, hoping her presented visage was believable—she had plenty experience at feigning emotion, and more still at hiding it, yet pretending to hide a faked emotion was an art unto itself. The Emperor's talon rapped once, twice on the spot marked 'Domrak'; then, without flourish, he pierced the tip through to the table beneath.

"The Grottan were destroyed when the Arathim reclaimed their caves," he said in a casual tone, as though remarking on some curious turn of the weather. "What few remain we will track down and capture, but their numbers will be insufficient to replenish our stores." His talon wrenched from the map, leaving behind a ragged tear; Seladon focused on it, imagining the mark as another gaping wound on Thra's ravaged landscape.

 _'He's lying.'_ She knew the truth of her thoughts the moment she had them, a knowledge without learning gained from her brief joining with the Ascendency. _'The Grottan escaped with the Arathim. They were **not** destroyed.'_

Why the Emperor was lying about this, Seladon could not say with any certainty. It might have been some strategy, or it might simply have been an amusement to see her despair; it mattered not. What mattered was that she had caught him in it, and he hadn't the slightest idea. _'What more has he lied about, I wonder?'_

(What **hadn't** he lied about?)

"I apologise, My Lord Emperor, I was unaware." Her good eye scanned the map, searching for territories still unmolested. "Perhaps the Dousan—"

"No." The hand with which he had broken Domrak now landed on Seladon's own. "They will fall to us in time. But not yet."

The urge to snatch her hand away was strong, and Seladon's fingers dug into the map in her effort to remain, nails piercing the parchment to leave marks of her own upon Thra.

"The Spriton are near to the Castle," she tried next. Tavra had spoken of a Resistance, with confidence that all Gelfling would rally. She had to hope that Maudra Mera was prepared to defend her people. "They would make for a convenient choice, would they not?"

The Emperor's long, withered fingers curled between her own, thumb stroking the skin of her wrist. "We do not **want** the Spriton."

The grip on Seladon's hand shifted, guiding her northward, her fingertips skimming the Black River that cut Thra in half. She could not reach the topmost portion of the map, even raised onto her toes, but even without completing the jourey she knew its destination. "My Lord—"

"A _name_ , Seladon." He was bent over her, enough that she could see his beak moving above her as he spoke; heard it _clack_ , _clack_. Her name in his voice made her shudder, in part to know that it was once something she would have ached to hear. Pressed so close he felt it, and he moaned lowly, pushing harder into her back. "You have yet to give me one."

Seladon's gaze followed the river, the path her fingers had taken, stopped short of the easternmost hook of the Claw Mountains. The Silver Sea glimmered just beyond her reach, and as she closed her good eye in resignation she could almost see the white-crested waves crashing into Ha'rar's shore, the ships idling in its bay as she watched from the Citadel's windows.

"The Vapra." The word was little more than a whisper, her heart too heavy to carry it any farther. "Take the Vapran clan, My Lord Emperor."

She expected his weight to vanish once she spoke, the need for intimidation having passed. But if anything he pressed closer, clutching her to him as he righted her posture to standing. The hand on her own now guided both to her stomach and splayed there, an intimate position that made her insides roil with the meal she had just eaten.

"Very good, All Maudra," he praised, nosing his beak into her hair. "I had concerns I would need to remind you of your place, and yet you perform for me so admirably. " He inhaled deeply as though savouring her scent, his heavy breaths tickling her scalp. "I did not even need to call attention to the sweet little sister you have tucked away in your room."

At the mention of Brea, Seladon's hand spasmed beneath his, and he laughed to feel it. "Oh, yes. There was some argument about her. The Scroll-Keeper, I understand he and your sister have been acquainted before? He was eager to drink her Essence, but I graciously allowed her to keep her life for now." The nosing in her hair turned to a light nipping, a behaviour she recalled from the Chamberlain and his grooming.

"A pity we could not capture both your sisters alive—but I suppose what's done is done."

It took a long, painful moment for the meaning behind the Emperor's words to register in Seladon's mind. Even once it had, once she understood his implication, it felt unreal—like words uttered in a dream _(nightmare)_ , a senseless string of phrases that never belonged together. She tried to turn in the Emperor's grip, to look him in his wretched eyes, but he held her fast, keeping her back against him. Perhaps that was for the best; she wasn't sure her legs would support her without him.

"Oh, dear," he drawled, the words crawling across Seladon's skin. "Did your sister not tell you that part? How brave Katavra came to snatch darling Brea away from here, like some thief in the dark? Only to meet her end the same as your idiot mother, at the end of the General's blade?"

Seladon said nothing, could not have even if there were words to say. She saw Brea's face, her eyes filled with unspeakable horrors, her hand over her mouth to keep them from spilling out. The Emperor continued to preen her, an intimacy that made her want to retch.

"You should give the General your thanks; if not for him, both your sisters would have abandoned you here to your fate." He clucked his tongue, thumb caressing a line across the back of her hand. "How cruel it is when our own kin turn on us, wouldn't you agree?"

Now Seladon's legs _did_ give beneath her, and the Emperor swung his free arm across her collar to keep her upright. With nowhere else to look she found the map again, its ridges and rips and tears; its shape swam before her, darkness creeping on its edges. She felt her heart hammering in her throat, and she wondered, half-hysterically, if it was going to strangle her.

"Seladon." Her name again, this time in warning, and she cut off the laughter she hadn't realised was her own. It felt like drowning on dry land, a fish left behind after the tide. _'Lies.'_ Brea's refusal to continue her tale, the horrors she could not face. _'He's lying, he's a liar.'_ Her thoughts focused on a pinpoint, and the madness untied her tongue.

"You are **lying**!" She lashed out and back, her elbow catching the Emperor squarely in the abdomen, and he must not have anticipated it, because he released her, choking and winded. Unable to move back or to the side Seladon instead dove forward, clawing herself up onto the table in a wild fit of desperation. She had nearly reached Ha'rar (so very nearly home) when a hand latched around her calf, and the Emperor dragged her kicking back to the table's edge, wrestling her flailing limbs beneath him.

"Enough!" Her free foot connected with his side, and his snarl was like an angry beast. " **THAT'S ENOUGH!** " A hand fisted in the hair at the back of Seladon's scalp, wrenching her backward; then he drove her forward, her skull making a terrible _crack_ as it collided with the table, and Seladon's world burst into stars.

Dazed, she was only vaguely aware of the Emperor securing her limbs, still thrashing weakly but too uncoordinated to be much use, pinning her under him with his weight. She tasted blood, and realised that she lay in a small puddle of it that dripped from the lower half of her face. The Emperor grunted, and as Seladon's bearings returned she was starkly aware of every heave of his body, every gasp and gulp for air.

"That," he panted raggedly, "was **most** unwise."

Her face mashed against the table, Seladon could not escape his breath as it wafted across her in heaves, like rotted meat and putrefication, honey-sweet fruit left to blacken in the sun. Its foulness stung her eyes, and she squeezed them shut against the tears prickling there as the Emperor collected himself, an effort that seemed excessive in its difficulty.

"And here I praised your obedience," he continued after a time. "It seems a reminder is in order after all. Or have you already forgotten your still-living sister sitting within my grasp?"

Seladon stiffened beneath him, the panic jumping in her chest. "No—"

"You haven't?" His tone was mockingly surprised. "Then you must care very little for her well-being, to exhibit such poor behaviour. I suppose, however if she is of no consequence to you...?"

He trailed off, the message unfinished but clear. Seladon's eyes squeezed tighter, as though she might block him out with her lids alone.

"There is no need for that." It was disgusting how easily the words came to her, how simple it was to abandon the fight. "My Lord Emperor—forgive my behaviour. My actions were unworthy of an All-Maudra."

Slowly, perhaps in caution or perhaps savouring the control, the Emperor eased Seladon to stand once more. She winced with each movement, the waning adrenaline quick to remind her of the already-present injuries she had aggravated in her frenzy, and the fresh ones now acquired. His grip on her loosened enough that she could turn in his arms, and she did so, coming to face his abdomen. There was a pendant hanging around his neck, one she had seen countless times before, and she focused on the shape of it. She could feel him looking down at her, and though she was surely too close for him to see her well over his beak, she still felt inescapably scrutinised.

"Indeed it was," he agreed. "Yet I cannot help but feel this repentance of yours is nothing more than a farce, used simply to deter the punishment you so rightly deserve."

 _'Of course it is!'_ she wanted to scream; instead, she swallowed. "My apology is sincere, My Lord Emperor."

"Is it?"

Seladon kept her field of vision locked forward, the metal pendant dangling against his chest. She reached for it, and tangled her hands in its points and edges, bruising her fingertips on the metal. "Of course, My Lord Emperor."

One of his hands slithered up her front, talons catching on the neck of her gown.

"Show me," he ordered, and wrenched the fabric down.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Truth and mourning in the aftermath of yet another assault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, at its worst, was 6000+ words long. Dreamfasts, you are the bane of my existence, and if my muse for this story decides to throw in another one further down the line I might just throw myself off a bridge.

Seladon's trio of knocks was met with the sound of scrambling inside the room, followed by the grind of wood dragged across stone—from the sound of it, Brea had used the entire bed as part of her barricade. Disregarding the pain across her body Seladon let out a small laugh, imagining her littlest sister shoving the heavy furniture pieces about. Despite her slight build and scholarly manner, Brea had always been curiously hardy; "strong as a little Sog Nebrie," as Tavra would say.

_'Oh, Tavra...'_

Only once the scraping stopped did the Podling at Seladon's side unlock the door, muttering to itself in its strange language. It nudged her gently inside, and she went without complaint, stepping aside enough to let the door be pulled shut and locked behind her. A quick glance around proved her suspicions correct, with the bed pushed now into the center of the room. She laughed again, and looked to her sister, who stood sweating from exertion and staring with naked horror in her eyes.

 _'Ah. Of course.'_ With no mirror in her room, Seladon had never properly seen herself after one of the Emperor's assaults, no more than she could glimpse with a glance downward. She had been able to ascertain the extent of the marks he left by the pain they caused, and where the Chamberlain had slathered ointments onto them, but their exact appearance had been a mystery.

From Brea's reaction, it was a gruesome sight, no doubt made worse by the blood from her nose that had dried all down her front.

After a moment of looking she saw the jar of ointment propped against the far wall, no doubt moved there by Brea to prevent it knocking over while she dragged the furniture about. Seladon pointed to it, and when Brea turned to look she settled onto the bed, glad with her sister's eyes averted she didn't have to hide her wince.

"For my injuries," she explained, voice eerily calm even to her own ears. "I cannot reach the ones on my back. Your assistance would be...much appreciated."

While Brea fetched the pot, Seladon took the chance to slip the gown over her head, holding the fabric at her front both to preserve some degree of modesty, and to hide the tooth and claw marks, fresh and scarred alike, decorating her breasts. Her ribs and shoulders screamed at the stretch, both from the Emperor's attentions and the General's earlier beating, but she succeeded nonetheless in time for Brea to turn back around.

The view from behind was apparently no better, because Brea sucked in a sharp breath at what she saw. She gathered Seladon's hair in one hand, moving it over her shoulder and out of the way; no sooner had she done so than she made a noise of alarm, and frantic fingers landed at Seladon's nape.

"Are these from teeth?! Did he **bite** you?! No," Brea cut herself off before Seladon had even recognised the question enough to consider an answer. "I—that is, you don;t have to..."

The words trailed into quiet, heavy and uncomfortable. At her back, Seladon could hear the scrape of the pot's lid being turned back and forth as Brea fiddled with it.

"I'll just get to work."

They proceeded in silence, save for the occasional gasp or wince. From where the ointment was smeared Seladon could guess the state of her back well enough: long trenches down either side of her spine, the scrapes and punctures of teeth at her neck, deeper indentations from thumbs digging in just above the swell of her buttocks. When it was done Brea laid both palms flat against her back, together in the space between her wings.

"Has this been happening all this time?" she asked, her voice soft as the crackle of guttering fire.

Seladon thought a long moment over her answer, pondering whether or not it was worth it to lie, or if doing so might only make things seem worse. In the end, she settled on the truth. "He's called on me before this, yes."

Brea's hands curled into fists against her back; a moment later her forehead landed along Seladon's spine, and she curled trembling in on herself like an Armalig.

"I hate them." The confession was quiet as her question had been, but brimming with something vicious and sharp. "All of them, for what they've done to us. To you, to Mother, to Tavra—"

Seladon sucked in a sharp breath, and her sister's words cut off abruptly. Since her return to the room Seladon had avoided thoughts of what the Emperor had revealed, the words that had echoed in her mind while he ravaged her body, marking her with talons teeth and tongue. A lie, she had told herself over and over, it was a lie, he had lied, he was a _liar_.

But not about this.

"Our sister is gone." Brea did not verbally confirm her statement, but the sob from Seladon's back was more than enough. "The Skeksis murdered her, as they murdered Mother."

Another sob, and this time Seladon twisted around, still clutching the gown over her chest. Holding it in place prevented her from putting her arms around Brea like she wanted, but she was loath to let it fall just yet. Without the support of her back Brea uncurled, and as she looked on her face Seladon realised just how filthy she was, the tracks left by her tears cutting stark lines through layers of dirt and grime, and Yesmit knew what else.

(Was Tavra's blood there as well, mixed with common filth upon those cheeks?)

"It should have been me," she whispered, more to herself than to Brea. But her sister's head snapped back all the same, eyes flying wide.

"Seladon, **no**!" Her hands grasped at her forearms, unwittingly pressing on the bruises there. Seladon hissed and jerked reflexively, and Brea let go at once, allowing her eldest sister ( _'only sister, now'_ ) to pull back, ears drooping in silent apology. With pained effort Seladon finally eased her gown back over her head, not bothering to maneuver her wings through the slits, and cringed at the feeling of fabric immediately adhering to the sticky ointments coating her back. The action apparently exposed more of her injuries to Brea's view, because Seladon heard her breath stutter, followed by a muted whimper.

 _'My price to pay,'_ she thought, as she still so often did, despite the lingering whispers of _no, no_ from her memory of the Ascendancy. She had hoped to speak with them (with **Tavra** ) upon her Threader's return; she had imagined her sisters' shared delight at a reunion, how it would have echoed across all Arathim in a single song of joy.

"Tavra came here to save you." It was a simple statement, a conclusion reached by following logic. Yet Brea seemed to recoil from the words, ears now so low they lay nearly flat behind her braids.

"She came for **both** of us," she returned, an oddly defensive edge to her tone. "She told me. I didn't realise what she meant, at the time—but she was here for you as much as for me."

It should have been a balm, like that smeared across her back, to know yet another thing the Emperor had lied about. Yet for Seladon it felt more like another shard broken from her heart: another burden to bear, another guilt to carry. _'How many more lives are going to be lost because of me?'_

"Did she say how she knew you were here?" she asked instead of that question. "Was it the Arathim who told her?"

Now it was Brea's turn to question, albeit wordlessly with eyes narrowed; still, she shook her head.

"No, it wasn't them," she answered; then she considered. "Or...it was? I'm not sure. But the Arathim were not the ones who led her here.

"It was Mother Aughra."

Realisation crashed into Seladon like a wave off the Silver Sea—the new voice that had joined the others, her Friend's sudden departure. _'She came back.'_ The sob stuck in her throat, and she was thankful for the opportunity to swallow it back down. _'She did not forget about me. She didn't abandon me!'_

Except Brea's expression was clouded with grief, a raw sort of hopelessness behind her eyes. It was not the look of one who had been saved, and the sight of it filled Seladon with dread.

At the same time, sense caught up with her. If Aughra was still here, she would have shown herself by now; if she was captured or killed, the Emperor would have openly gloated about it, as he had over Tavra's murder. That neither thing was true was as confusing to Seladon as any other of the Emperor's actions, reading him akin to trying to roast Blindfish on a snowbank, or seasoning its flesh with granules of sand.

But reading Brea was as simple as breathing. And in her wilted expression, Seladon saw the truth: whatever her fate, Mother Aughra was gone. Her and Tavra, two who had known of her plight, two who had come to her rescue. _'And now, two who are lost for it.'_

She owed it to them, if no one else, to witness their fate—the only penance she could offer. She reached out a hand wordlessly, and Brea drew back in surprise and alarm.

"Are you sure? I thought, after last time—"

"Hang that." Seladon's voice was firm, a stark contrast to how shaken she felt inside. It was true that she still trembled at the thought of dreamfasting again, but her fears were pushed forcibly to the wayside. She could not hide from this; she did not deserve to.

This time, the dreamfast brought them to in the Castle's depths, behind bars in a cell. There were only a few other Gelfling there with Brea—Stonewood, from the look of them, and none of them hardened warriors. One was little more than a childling, ruddy-haired and freckled beneath a layer of filth. He sat curled in Brea's lap in the back corner of the cell, weeping quietly while she soothed him.

"We'll be alright," she promised. "My friends know how to defeat the Skeksis. They'll put an end to this, all of it."

The boy sniffed, and asked for his mother. From somewhere out of sight, there was an explosion of breaking glass.

"We need more!" The Scientist's voice shouted. "Quickly, quickly!"

A pair of creatures appeared before the cell's bars, and Seladon realised with horror that their mouths were stitched shut with thickened leather cord. They pushed open the door to the cell, reaching in to grab for the Gelfling inside. They pulled the childling from Brea's arms, and winced when she cried in protest, shaking their heads and moaning in wordless misery.

And then the screaming began. Brea was sobbing now, both within the dreamfast and without. Twice more the creatures returned, took the remaining Gelfling from their cell while Brea huddled in a corner, her arms cold and empty with broken promises.

Still, when at last they came for her, she fought them, scratching and kicking at anything she could reach. Inside the laboratory proper she caught a glimpse of the other Skesksis, and what must have been the Hunter's corpse, for nothing living could look like that. They secured her into a chair-like contraption at wrists neck and ankles, the Scientist gloating over her ferocity. He spoke to the others, then wrenched the handle of some machine. With nowhere else to look, Brea turned her gaze forward—and she _saw_.

The sight was one Seladon recognised at once, seen through Fara's eyes and those of countless others, but she hadn't known what it was then. Now she could see plainly, an understanding that came from a part of her that would always belong to Thra.

_The Crystal of Truth._

Except it shouldn't have been that colour. It should have been bright and pure, like light given form. A smell seemed to seep from it, so foul it persisted even in memory, and as Brea recoiled Seladon recognised the scent from the Emperor creeping across her body: sick and corrupt and dying, awful, wretched. It reached for her, _through_ her, to grasp at something else, something it wanted, **needed** —

It was as though Brea's mind had gone utterly blank, either with terror or from the Crystal's effects, and her thoughts dissolved beneath its influence. The dreamfast faltered, the memories too half-formed to recall, let alone project them onto another. It was only when a voice cut through the noise, and the machine sputtered to a halt once more, that the world clarified, and Brea turned to see her saviour.

 _Mother Aughra._ The voice Seladon had heard, the one that had sprung her Threader into action. Then the words had been only faint echoes throughout the Castle, but now she heard them clearly: a demand for Brea's release, and the other Gelfling captives ( _'but what other captives remain?'_ the Brea of then wondered) in exchange for her own life—her own Essence.

Behind her the Skeksis rallied, shouting, arguing. "You would give up your own life for a few worthless Gelfling?" the Emperor's voice spoke above them, calm and cold over the din of the others. The sound of it made Seladon shiver, feeling the dread building with every passing moment, _'Aughra, no, don't trust them—'_

In response to the question Aughra scoffed, and stomped out of Brea's field of vision. Unable to see the exchange, Seladon could only listen, not wholly understanding the words the crone was saying. "You Skeksis do not return to Thra when you die," she said, but that made no sense. Did not all of Thra's creatures return to it upon death?

Whatever their meaning, her words apparently had convinced the Emperor. The order was issued for Brea's liberation; the catches around her wrists and neck released, and air came rushing in with great gasps. Free from the Scientist's contraption, she rushed immediately to Aughra, begging, _pleading_ her to reconsider, that it wasn't worth it, that **she** wasn't worth it.

Aughra's smile was thoughtful in its sorrow, and as she met Brea's eyes, Seladon felt inexplicably that she was staring through time, speaking to her in the dreamfast as much as she was to Brea in memory.

"Yes," she retorted, "you **are**."

Salvation was waiting outside of the Scientist's laboratory, and despite the guilt and misery Brea's heart leapt, Seladon's along with her. Though she had spoken with Tavra through the Ascendancy, and felt her presence as surely as she had been there, she had not truly seen her sister since their last exchange in the Citadel, before the world broke into shards. She was thin and pale, with a weariness about her face that had not been there before, and on her cheek there bloomed what at first glance might have been a flower, but which Seladon recognised at once as an Arathim Threader. Her eyes, however, were clear, warm like sweet honey and oh-so-familiar.

"Aughra ordered me to get you to safety," she said, and the sight of her smile caused heartache to twist anew in Seladon's chest. "Now, let's get out of this place."

Tavra lead her from the dungeons, down into the catacombs deep beneath the Castle. In their depths she laid out the path before them, instructing Brea on how to finish the journey on her own. The youngest princess whirled on her sister, her anxiety rising ("you will not be coming with me?") and Tavra smiled reassuringly, a hand on her arm.

"I'll follow," she promised, "I just have to go back for someone else, first."

 _It was you,_ Brea voiced now what she hadn't realised at the time. _She was coming back for **you**._

 _'Coming back to die,'_ Seladon corrected, in a space apart from the dreamfast where Brea could not hear.

It did not matter either way. They had not even reached the point where they intended to part ways before a creeping voice echoed throughout the caves, low and growling and thick with gleeful malice.

"Leaving so soon?"

The sound of the General's voice made Seladon flinch, her hand spasming in Brea's. Her sister squeezed back in wordless question, but Seladon shook it away. _Don't stop,_ she commanded (begged). _Show me. I need to see._

Tavra fought like a Gelfling possessed, ignoring Brea's cries, pursuing the General with a single-mindedness that was almost frightening. Her blade plunged into him, through the gaps in his armor, blood spilling in its wake ( _they bleed, they die, we can kill them_ ) as he dropped to the floor, shaking, panting.

There was something viscerally satisfying about seeing the General plead for his life—pathetic, defeated, prone, as he had had Seladon beneath his fists. Even knowing what was to come, she took a moment to revel in it, wishing she could bade Brea to hold on that sight for longer.

But the killing blow did not come from where Seladon thought it would. Where she had expected the General—for that was what the Emperor had claimed, after all—to rise and strike her sister down, instead Tavra's end came from behind, a curved blade piercing her through. Its holder cast her from it with a swipe, sending her body flying against the damp stone, and the voice that cried out with the blow was one Seladon knew well, heard whisper and soothe and croon platitudes in her ear, night after night after night.

 _"Beloved Seladon,"_ it echoed, not in the dreamfast but in her own mind, _"am **friend**."_

The dreamfast faltered, attempting to pull away from what followed, but Seladon pushed back against Brea's reluctance, driving the memory wretchedly forward. It clarified, and Tavra lay slumped against the wall, her own blood pooling around her in a grotesque puddle the colour of blush on a maiden's cheek. Her eyes met Brea's, and in that moment she looked so awfully similar to Mother that Seladon had to bite back a scream. Then she shuddered, and moved no more.

 _'Go to her.'_ The thought was Brea's, in the memory of that moment. _'I must go to her, I have to stop the bleeding,'_ never mind that it was already stopping on its own, no blood left in Tavra's body to be spilled. But something seized her from behind before she could will her feet to move, sweeping her back in a flurry of crimson robes and grasping claws.

"Orders from Emperor," the Chamberlain said, pushing Brea into the General's hands. "Bring Silverling Princess to her _family_. Chamberlain will tell of what happened here—of how General fought despite terrible wounds, felled Thief before she could escape with Princess. How Chamberlain arrived just in time to heal General, and witness great triumph." He leaned in, and though from Brea's position she could not see his face, Seladon could imagine easily the expression painted there.

"Is least skekSil can do for friend, yes?"

The General blustered through thanks, words of praise and gratitude, but Brea heard none of it. Her eyes were fixed on Tavra's lifeless face, eyes once so fierce and loving now unseeing and empty. She stared until the General hefted her over his shoulder, blocking her last view of her sister with his bulk. And as he carried her from the catacombs, the dreamfast at last wound to an end, leaving Seladon feeling colder than the Emperor had ever left her.

When her good eye at last opened, she was leaning brow-to-brown with Brea, who was weeping quietly. As if in reflex Seladon lifted her hands, wiping away the tears streaking her sister's face, the same as she had done countless times a lifetime ago, when Brea had tripped and fallen in her eagerness, or drank her tá before it was cool, or crawled into Seladon's bed after a nightmare. Even more filth came away under her fingers, revealing cleaner skin underneath, and she thought suddenly (wildly) that if she just tried hard enough, she could wipe away all that had happened, leaving her baby sister as pristine as she had been before everything had gone wrong.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, because what else could she say? The world was broken, their family was gone—and soon, she recalled solemnly, their whole clan would follow. The last, however, Brea did not yet know, and she leaned into Seladon's touch with a sigh, seeking the familiar comfort in a world gone mad.

A scratching sound broke the quiet, and Seladon's head turned immediately to the far wall with its gap between the stones. Brea followed her gaze, though she murmured questions, all of them answered a moment later when the Threader emerged from the shadows.

Perhaps too eagerly Seladon slipped from the bed, dropping to the floor and instantly regretting it when her already-bruised knees hit the stones. She felt Brea's hands catch her arms, her sister easing her into a more comfortable position; she looked up in thanks, but Brea was staring at the Threader with wide eyes, lips parted in a mixture of shock and alarm. And when Seladon looked back, she found herself mimicking the expression, unsure what to make of this new development.

For there was her Friend, same as before, unchanged and familiar. Yet from the crack behind it came more legs, a second body, a second Threader. It too moved into the light, identical in all aspects to its fellow, yet Seladon somehow knew instinctively that this one was new to her.

"Those are Arathim." Brea had settled on the floor beside her, one hand still gripping Seladon's elbow. "Why are they here?"

Seladon might have asked the same question herself. She reached out, palm-up on the floor, and her friend immediately scurried up her arm to settle at its preferred spot on her shoulder. The second Threader, however, moved toward Brea, pausing when she flinched away from its approach. It waited until her posture eased, then reached a spindly leg toward her hands, pawing in question.

"Hold your hands together," Seladon instructed, cupping her own to demonstrate. "It's alright; they will not hurt us."

Brea hesitated a moment more before mimicking Seladon's action, lowering her hands to the floor. The Threader crawled at once into them, settling itself contentedly like a roosting Awlis in the cupped space. It didn't connect to her, Seladon could tell, yet Brea's eyes lit up with sudden understanding nonetheless.

"Tavra, she—" Brea paused, swallowed; continued. "She had one of these, on her face. She said it was called a Threader."

Seladon nodded, both in confirmation of her sister's words and in her own recollections, seen in their dreamfast. "I have spoken with this one before," she said, tilting her head in her Friend's direction, huffing a soft laugh when it reached one limb to tap at her cheek. "But the other one is new; I've never seen it here." Was this new Threader the same as had been attached to Tavra? Or had that one died with her, somewhere in the depths of the Castle?

Considering the dreamfast brought another question to the forefront of Seladon's mind. "In the dungeons," she ventured, "you said your friends knew how to defeat the Skeksis. Was that the truth?"

She spoke carefully, all too aware of the context in which Brea had uttered those words. And from the misery that flashed in her sister's eyes, Brea remembered it, too: failed protection, a broken promise, things Seladon knew too well. Her sister's eyes fell to the Threader in her hands, which had taken to butting its odd face against her fingers—the same way Seladon's Friend would sometimes wake her from a nightmare.

"I think," Brea said at length, "I should show you what I learned at the Circle of the Suns. And," her eyes shifted guiltily sideways, "there's something else. That first night, after our escape—we held a ceremony. For Mother. I didn't show you before because...well, I—I thought..."

The rest of her words trailed into mumbles. Seladon leaned in closer, one hand resting on her sister's knee. "What did you think?"

Brea's eyes were already wet from before, but when Seladon met them she saw the tears flowing once more. "I thought, perhaps—that you still blamed me. For...everything."

_'Oh.'_

It was strange, how the guilt continued to accumulate, even when Seladon thought herself full on it. Because she _had_ blamed Brea, and her friends, and their chaos-bringing ways; and it was not so long ago that she had cursed her sister's name, even if at times it felt like a thousand trine had passed since then. Even after the Skeksis had revealed themselves, even after the Emperor had ravaged her—a part of her had still wondered how it might have been, if Brea and Mother and all their lot had not broken the peace between Gelfling and their Lords.

A soft tickling across her knuckles, and Seladon looked down. The second Threader had reached out from where it sat in Brea's cupped palms, one of its leaf-like limbs brushing Seladon's hand. There was something soothingly familiar about the touch, and in the back of her mind she remembered the echo of the Ascendancy's words, Tavra's voice among them: _no, no_. An absolution she did not deserve, forgiveness she had not earned.

"Show me." Seladon's hands slipped around Brea's, and she took a moment to revel in how wildly different they were from the Emperor's: warm instead of cold, soft instead of withered, familiar instead of unwelcome. "All of it."

It was time she saw what already too many had died for.


End file.
